by Lynsay Sands
"Anyway," Domitian continued, "Uncle Lucian divided the areas up into four quadrants and sent two teams of two hunters out to each."
"What happened?" she asked at once when he paused.
"Nothing at first," he answered. "They were using boats, not helicopters, in the hopes of making a stealthy approach, but it was a lot of area to cover."
"And?" Sarita prompted when he fell silent.
"The third day two teams from two different quadrants did not report in," Domitian admitted solemnly. "Two women, Eshe, my aunt by marriage, and Mirabeau La Roche McGraw made up one team, and my cousins Decker and Nicholas made up the second team."
"Oh," Sarita breathed softly. She'd known he knew some of the missing immortals but hadn't realized they were family, and she asked, "Your aunt and cousins are Rogue Hunters too like your sister?"
"Si," Domitian murmured, and then cleared his throat and continued, "Anyway, when the two teams didn't turn up by dawn, Uncle Lucian tried to have their phones tracked, but they must have been disabled. So he pulled everyone off the other two quadrants, and split them up between the two quadrants the teams had gone missing from. But now they were looking for the missing hunters as well as the island Dressler owns."
"Did he check the land registry office?" Sarita asked and then frowned. "That's what it's called in Canada, I don't remember what it is called here, if I ever even knew, but they must have some record of who buys what properties."
Domitian nodded. "They checked. There is no property listed to a Ramsey Dressler in Venezuela."
"Ramsey," Sarita muttered. She'd never known Dr. Dressler's first name. Her grandmother had never mentioned it. Shaking her head, she said, "He must have used another name then."
"Si, that is what is suspected, but we have no idea what name he might have used."
"Right," Sarita breathed. "So, I gather from the fact that Dressler is still out here torturing people with his experiments that they didn't find the island?"
"No, and another four hunters went missing. This time one from each team of two."
"What?" she asked with amazement. "How?"
Domitian shrugged helplessly. "No one knows. With each team it was the same story. The other hunter was there, and then suddenly was not."
Sarita stared at him blankly and then shook her head. "Well, the ones who came back had to have seen or heard something. They were on boats, right?"
"Si, but the hunters who returned were all piloting the boats. In each case they said they were skimming through the water, glanced around to say something to their partner, and they were gone. They did not hear or see anything to suggest a struggle. And whatever happened was quick. In two cases the missing man was holding a conversation with the pilot when it happened. They said something, the pilot responded, glanced back to them, and they were not there."
"Oh, that's just spooky," Sarita declared after a moment.
"Si," Domitian murmured.
"None of them were related to you this time, were they?" she asked with concern.
Domitian nodded slowly. "My uncle Victor, and Lucern, another cousin, were among those taken. My sister, Drina, was on one of the teams, but fortunately, she was piloting the boat. She returned, but the man partnered with her, a man named Santo Notte, did not."
"Your sister is here in Venezuela?"
"Si. Uncle Lucian called in all the Rogue Hunters in North America after my aunt and cousins went missing. There are several civilians down here now too trying to help, which has Uncle Lucian furious," he added wryly.
"Why would that upset him?" Sarita asked with surprise.
"Because he's lost so many hunters who are skilled and trained for situations like this. He considers it far too dangerous to have nonhunters here and fears they will just be cannon fodder."
"But he let you help," she pointed out.
"Actually, he refused my help when I first offered it," Domitian admitted with a crooked smile, and explained, "When I learned he and the others had flown in, I went directly to the villas they'd rented and offered to help, but he said no, it was too dangerous and I was not a hunter." He shrugged. "So I returned to my restaurant and helped the only way I could."
"Food?" she guessed at once.
Domitian nodded. "I cooked large batches of food four or five times a day and sent it to the villa."
"I'm sure they appreciated that," she assured him.
He shrugged, and continued, "I offered my assistance again when my aunt and cousins went missing, but again was refused."
Sarita reached out and covered his hand sympathetically. He seemed perfectly calm about it all, but she could sense the frustration and anger simmering under the surface at not being allowed to help search for his missing family members.
Domitian stared at her hand briefly, then turned his own over and clasped her fingers gently, his shoulders relaxing somewhat.
"So," she said, clearing her throat, "what changed? Why did he let you help in the end?"
"You," Domitian said squeezing her fingers lightly.
"Me?" she asked with surprise.
"Si," he said solemnly. "Dressler has been a regular in my restaurant for at least two years and has offered me a job as his personal chef every couple of months during that time. But two days ago, he called and offered it again. This time, though, he mentioned that Sarita, the granddaughter of one of his employees, was coming for a visit and he wished to offer her more than the slop his regular cook served."
"Aleta doesn't serve slop," Sarita said, snatching her hand away and scowling at him for the insult to the woman.
"He said it, not me," Domitian assured her solemnly. "And now that I know he knew all along that you are my life mate, I am sure it was just an excuse to mention your name and let me know you were here."
"Oh . . . yeah, it probably was," she said, relaxing.
"Anyway," Domitian continued, "I could hardly refuse the offer this time, not when I knew you were on the island and quite possibly in danger. So I accepted the job--as Dressler no doubt expected--and then I went straight to the villa to give Lucian the news." He smiled wryly. "I expected him to be pleased. After all, Dressler had no idea I was an immortal so I would not be in danger, and my uncle could have my phone tracked and find out where the island was."
"I gather he didn't see things that way?"
"Hell no. According to him I was throwing myself in harm's way. Dressler probably did know I was an immortal, and this was just a trap to add another one to his collection, and Dressler would incapacitate my phone and myself quickly to prevent their following. Which he was right about as it turns out," Domitian said on a sigh.
"And yet he let you come," she said.
Domitian snorted. "He had no choice. This is South America, the North American council has no power here or over me. Once I pointed that out, he had no choice and started making plans on how best to track me and keep me safe and so on."
Sarita nodded, but was now frowning as she considered what he'd said and then asked, "I'm surprised that wasn't a problem."
"What?" Domitian asked.
"Well, this isn't North America," she pointed out.
"No," he agreed.
"Mortal police can get pretty testy about jurisdiction and whatnot," she said with a grimace. "Don't the South American Council mind that your uncle has come into their jurisdiction in pursuit of a perp? Or did your uncle contact them and coordinate with them on this operation?"
Domitian made a face, and then admitted, "Actually, I assumed they knew, but when we were on the way to the docks, a call came from the villa that the South American Council were there and wanted to see him. Uncle Lucian just said he'd be back soon and hung up, but one of the men, Justin Bricker, said, 'Uh-oh. They've found out we're here.'"
"Hmm." Sarita bit her lip. If immortals were anything like mortals, she suspected there might be a mini turf war happening on the mainland about now and wondered what that looked like between vampires. A duel at dusk with stakes? Shaki
ng her head, she reached for another cracker, intending to make another cracker sandwich, only to pause as she realized they were all gone. They'd eaten every last crumb of food from the tray Domitian had brought as they'd talked. There wasn't even an olive left.
"Time for dessert," Domitian announced, grabbing the tray and slipping quickly out of their sheet-wrapped cocoon. When he didn't reappear again right away, Sarita frowned and crawled across the bed to tug the sheet aside and see what he was doing.
Setting the tray aside and stripping off his boxers maybe? she thought hopefully. He would make a lovely dessert. But when Sarita looked out she saw that the room was empty. Domitian had left.
Releasing the sheet, she dropped back to lie on the bed with disappointment. The man was sending mixed messages. Saying no he didn't plan to have sex with her, and then saying he'd lick the crumbs off her later. Now he had apparently gone off to find them dessert. She had no idea what he had planned.
Nine
Domitian cut the last profiterole in half, filled it with ice cream like the others, and then retrieved the chocolate sauce he'd left to stay warm on the range. Tipping the pan, he drizzled it slowly over the profiteroles he'd arranged on the plate, and then set the plate on the tray with the wine and small dessert plates. He took a moment to go over the items on the tray, making sure he had everything, and then picked it up and headed back to the bedroom.
Sarita had chosen bananas flamee as her dessert the three times she'd eaten at his restaurant, but after her reaction to the sirloin in mango salsa, he wasn't making the mistake of serving her the dessert she usually ordered too. He was hoping the profiteroles would be better received.
"More wine?" Sarita asked with amusement as he pulled the sheet aside and climbed back into their cocoon.
"It is a muscat, perfect with profiteroles, but I made cappuccinos too. You can have one or both as you wish." He settled on the bed and let the sheet drop back into place as he set the tray on the bed between them.
"Profiteroles?" she asked with interest and leaned over to look at them. Her eyes widened. "Did you make these?"
"Of course," he said with amusement.
"I've never had freshly made profiteroles," she confessed. "I've had the frozen ones they sell at the grocery stores in Canada, but--"
"Garbage," he assured her as he slid two onto a small plate and offered them to her with a fork. "These will be much better."
Sarita smiled slightly at his bragging as she took the plate and fork. She cut off a piece of ice cream-filled profiterole and slid it into her mouth as Domitian busied himself pouring her a glass of the muscat before pushing the sheet aside and leaning to set the wine bottle on the bedside table and out of the way.
"Mmmmmmmm."
Domitian let the sheet drop back into place and turned to smile at Sarita as she moaned over her first bite of profiterole. "Good?"
Sarita nodded and swallowed. "Oh yeah. Heavenly," she assured him. "You're a keeper."
"I am glad to hear you say that," Domitian said solemnly, and recognized the moment when she realized what she'd said by how she stilled and then flushed with embarrassment. When Sarita followed that up by gulping down a mouthful of wine, Domitian sighed to himself and picked up his own plate to eat.
The woman hadn't yet accepted that they were life mates, and he knew he shouldn't rush her, but couldn't help himself. He had waited more than two millennia to find his life mate. Fifteen years ago he had found her, but had forced himself to wait for her to grow up and become her own woman. The plan had been to wait until she had worked for a couple years in her chosen profession and then find and woo her, but Dressler had cut some time off that goal with his actions. Still, to his mind, Domitian had been incredibly patient. However, it seemed he would have to be patient a bit longer. He could do it. One did not live this long without learning patience. But that didn't mean he would enjoy it.
Glancing at Sarita, he noted the tight, uncomfortable expression on her face and sighed inwardly. The woman was as closed up as a turtle in its shell. He needed to open her up a bit before she would even see the possibilities before her. Swallowing the bit of profiterole in his mouth, he said, "Tell me about yourself."
Sarita glanced up with surprise, and then arched an eyebrow. "I would have thought your private detective had told you everything there was to know."
Domitian shook his head. "Those were just cold hard facts written on pristine white paper. I want to know more than the facts. I want to know you," he said firmly. "I want to see the past through your eyes. The present too. I want to know your dreams, your wishes, your heart. I wanted to know the real Sarita, not the facts behind her existence."
Sarita stared at him wide eyed for a moment, and then lowered her head and peered down at the ice cream melting and sliding out of her profiteroles. She was silent for so long he began to think she wasn't going to respond at all, but then she said, "I had a pretty normal childhood until I was thirteen."
Domitian exhaled slowly, realizing only then that he'd been holding his breath, unsure she would respond to his request.
Sarita shrugged. "Happy loving parents, good in school, lots of friends, and a grandfather who spoiled me rotten and who I adored . . . and then my mother was kidnapped."
She took a bite of profiterole and ice cream, chewed, and swallowed and then chased it with a sip of wine before adding, "Although, I suppose that was pretty normal too when you think about it. Kidnapping in Venezuela is practically a national pastime and there were more than a couple of kids in my school who knew someone who had been kidnapped."
Domitian nodded solemnly. Kidnapping had become rampant in Venezuela. It was visited on everyone, the rich, the middle class, and even the poor. In fact, it was so commonplace that people had begun forming groups with friends, coworkers, and neighbors, joining together to put money into funds to pay off kidnappers and get back the loved ones of the people in their groups.
"My father loved my mother dearly and did everything the kidnappers told him to do. He didn't contact the police, he didn't tell anyone, and he gathered together the demanded money and went to the meeting place they instructed him to, to deliver it. He'd expected my mother to be there and to be exchanged for the money, but they told him it didn't work that way. That once they were safely away and sure that the policia weren't there somewhere waiting to jump them, they would send my mother to him."
"But they did not," Domitian said softly, sorry he'd made her relive this sad part of her life.
"Oh, they did," she assured him, and then added bitterly, "in pieces."
Domitian winced. The kidnapping had happened three months before he'd met Sarita and learned he couldn't read her. The detective he'd hired had mentioned in his first report that her mother had died in a kidnapping gone wrong, and her father was moving her out of the country because of that, but hadn't given specifics. Domitian hadn't asked for any.
"I am sorry," he said softly.
Sarita acknowledged his words with a nod and turned her gaze back to her plate as she scooped up another bite of profiterole. After swallowing, she said, "After my mother's death, my father was afraid the same thing would happen to me, and decided he had to get me out of Venezuela. He worked for the Royal Bank of Canada here. He was the assistant manager at their branch office in Caracas and, with the bank manager's help, was able to get a transfer to a branch in Canada." Her expression turned thoughtful. "I think the bank helped to speed up the paperwork needed for us to move, visas and whatnot. It still seemed to take a while, though, several months I think."
She paused, apparently trying to recall, and then shrugged. "Anyway, off we went to Canada. We settled in a little town just south of Toronto where it would be easy for my father to commute into the city to his new bank. Fortunately, it was summer and school was out. Well, for everyone else," she added wryly. "My father wanted me to get a good start once school began, and he wanted me to be able to protect myself, so he signed me up for martial arts two nights a
week, and then hired me a teacher to teach me English. I spent that first summer learning English eight hours a day, every day. It was English, English, English with the occasional martial arts break at night."
"Your father found a teacher willing to work seven days a week?" he asked with amusement.
"Oh no, the teacher only taught me during the weekdays, my father taught me on Saturday and Sunday . . . and usually for a couple of hours on weeknights after work. My whole life was mostly English. By the time school started, I was sick to death of contractions and the order of adjectives and nouns." She rolled her eyes and then sighed and shrugged. "But I had learned enough that I was able to go to a normal high school."
"Were you already in high school at thirteen?" he asked. It seemed young to him.
"Fourteen," she corrected. "My birthday is--"
"July seventh," Domitian finished for her with a nod. "Yes, of course. You would have been fourteen by the time school started."
"Right," she said slowly, eyeballing him. "Your private dick would have told you my birth date."
"Yes," he said simply.
"Hmm," she muttered, and then continued, "Anyway, my life was pretty normal again after that. High school dances, going to the mall with friends, bush parties, making--"
"Excuse me," he interrupted. "Bush parties? This is what?"
Sarita shrugged. "Just what it sounds like, parties in the bush."
Domitian pursed his lips briefly and then said, "That would be a very small party."
"Heck no, tons of kids went. Like I said, it was a small town. There wasn't much to do unless you drove to the city, and the first two years of high school there was no driving anywhere. But even after my friends and I all started turning sixteen and getting our licenses, none of our parents were willing to let us take the family car into the city. I don't think anyone's did really. The older kids were at the bush parties too."
